His Blood in My Veins
by hamaell
Summary: Rated for violence, blood and sex between men. "Now it's his breath that hitches, as the cold metal is pressed to the palm of his hand. 'Bleed for me,' he pleas quietly, and cuts his skin open." LxLight or LightxL, whichever floats your boat.


**Author's Note:**

Before I start, I just need to do some ranting. Feel free to skip this part if you want to.

is a pain in my neck. It won't let me log in, for some unknown reason.

2 .FFnet is also a pain in my neck. It refuses to, when I upload a document, make it look like I want it too – it deletes lines and brackets and what not. And if that wasn't enough, it also refuses to update! I am in tears.

3. My spell checker won't work. It's driving me mental.

Alright, rant over. Let's get on with it, shall we? This is a little different, I think, but hopefully you'll like it anyway. I'm quite happy with how it turned out, if I may say so myself.

A thousand thank you's to **Laimielle** for beta-reading this thing over and over again, and correcting all of my mistakes.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Death Note

All the windows are wide open, winter air seeping into the room, causing goosebumps to form on his arms. The moonlight, making his skin so sickly white, is unnerving. It's November and the air is frosty; it forces steam from his mouth as he exhales slowly. It's almost as if his lungs will freeze completely if he's not breathing carefully.

The air in front of him is icy cold; behind him there is scorching heat as a bare chest presses against his bare back. A slender finger traces invisible patterns on his naked torso and the extreme difference in temperature makes him unsure of what to do. Lips press softly against his throat, and he finds it odd how they can be so warm when their surroundings are so cold. The finger suddenly stops its ministrations and comes to an abrupt halt, hovering just above his heart. He shifts his head downwards, but stops the action and continues to stare straight ahead when the lips on his neck cease their affectionate kissing and opens to speak.

'Don't move.'

It's only a whisper, but for some reason it sounds so loud, and he submits and stays put.

'You can't move,' the lips whisper again. 'It won't be the same if you move.'

'I won't move,' he promises, and as the finger starts moving across his chest again, he swallows thickly and clenches his fists before making them relax. After that he stays completely still.

He can't remember how they ended up on the middle of the floor, with the windows open and without clothes to cover their bodies. He tries, he really does, but he can't find a reasonable explanation for their ongoing activity no matter how hard he concentrates. The minutes in which they moved from the doorway to where they are currently positioned appears to have been lost somewhere, having relocated themselves into a part of his brain which he is not aware of having. But maybe, he contemplates, it doesn't really matter.

He does his best to stay static, but when something cold and sharp replaces the warm softness of the elegant finger he can't help but tense up. A quiet hiss manages to escape from his mouth and the sound makes his stiff lips tingle, and as he moves his gaze down to his chest he swallows for a second time when his eyes land upon the pair of scissors the hand that is not his holds in a careful grip.

He can feel the beat of the other heart as it increases and he presses closer to it, making the skin on their bodies rub against each other. It causes a friction that is comforting in a painful kind of way; the breath fanning against the exposed skin on his shoulder hitches for just a second.

The scissors move now, ghosting across his chest, his arm, his thigh, his neck, until it is leaning against his hip, just almost touching his skin. A warm hand takes a hold of his cold one, and brings it up in the air, turning it slowly until his palm is facing the roof. Now it's his breath that hitches, as the cold metal is pressed to the palm of his hand. For a minute or two, there is no movement at all but the subtle raising and sinking of their upper-bodies as they breathe. Then, hearty lips whisper again against his throat.

'Bleed for me,' he pleas quietly, and cuts his skin open.

Dark blood seeps from the wound that was meant to be shallow; it stains the shiny surface of the metallic weapon and sneaks its way down his wrists before falling in perfect droplets on the white carpet that covers the floor. He stares at the vivid red that is almost hypnotic, and when the blood stained edge of the scissors expose the muscles in his palm for a second, third and fourth time, he watches in silent awe.

With a dull thud the scissors land on the carpeted floor, and both hands grip his tightly, before bringing it up to his shoulder and velvety lips touch the damaged skin with care. A smooth tongue makes its way through parted lips and licks the wounds.

He exhales slowly, leaning his head back against a firm shoulder and let his eyes flutter close as his palm is cleaned. He can feel the sticky, red liquid as it begins to dry on his sensitive skin.

When his hand is released and those gentle lips return to place soft kisses on his neck, he gets a sudden urge to turn around. And so he does, until they're sitting with their knees touching and their faces only inches apart.

'Do you trust me?' he whispers, while grabbing the scissors and holding it up, waving it subtly in the air.

'I do.'

He places his injured hand on the soft cheek in front of him, holding the pretty face still. The blood is still moist and it smears the supple skin as he opens the scissors with his thumb and forefinger on his other hand, places a quivering bottom lip between the two sharp edges and force them to close. There is no sound as the metal cuts through the fragile skin, but tears fall from open eyes and he pauses for a moment to commend them and watch them mix with the beautiful blood as it streams down a rounded chin. He pries the metal parts open, moves them over the soft flesh, slightly to the side, and repeats the action. Again and again he clips, and when there is no more room on the lip he's working on, he moves to the upper one and continue.

And then he stops, admiring his handy work. The mouth in front of him is a gaping, weeping wound, and he looks so tragically beautiful in the barren moonlight. He leans closer, slowly, until his lips are barely touching the bloodied disarray.

'Kiss me,' he mouths, and the broken lips complies.

The kiss is sloppy, messy and hungry, and the feeling of the slick, tattered lips covering his mouth wit metallic fluid makes his own blood boil in response. As two pairs of lips part he sneaks his tongue past the row of pearly teeth and massages the wet muscle that greets him. He can taste blood and blood only, the taste intensifying as those teeth bite down on him.

The glistening mix of blood and saliva is warm as it drips on his lap and it makes him shiver, makes him whimper against the mouth covering his. He raises his other hand and places it on the cheek that is not covered in red fluid, now holding the broken face between both of his hands. Seemingly on their own accord, his hands then travel upwards until they grip the silky locks on his peer's scalp, and he tugs harshly, tearing off strands of hair and letting them slide across his lean fingers.

Suddenly, he finds himself shoved backwards by a pair of arms so strong that the air is knocked out of his lungs when his back collides with the floor. Hips grind impatiently, forcefully against his own and sharp teeth attack his throat with fevered vigour, breaking his skin with ease. He avenges the blood tickling its way down his neck by raking his nails across the vulnerable back, arching against the heated body above his own.

Things between them would never be neat and pretty; they both knew that from the beginning. The hatred they share is raw and it makes their actions and emotions raw, and in the end there is nothing left but a primal urge to get rid of the lethal threat they pose on each other. The thing about feelings as strong as the ones they feel, they realized very soon, is that they easily blend together. Their feelings are merely different kinds of passion – passion from every part of the emotional spectrum. Yesterday they were mortal enemies; tonight they are lovers. And by tomorrow, hatred will be back with a vengeance.

As slim fingers find their way around his throat, he catches his own view in the eyes above his. He looks a mess with blood smeared all over the bottom half of his face. Suddenly, the scissors are sharp and in his view, but before he has time to react they land on his shoulder and cuts a deep line over his collarbone. Heart beating furiously, he welcomes the adrenaline rush and tenses his muscles, and when the hand around his neck blocks his airways, he does nothing but smile.

The scissors continue to cut his chest open, one bleeding wound stressing the outline of every bone of his ribcage, and as white lights disturb his vision when the lack of oxygen slowly becomes too much, he can't help but struggle against the strength of the limbs that are holding him down. Then he is suddenly shifted into a warm lap and flesh that is hard and pulsing rams itself into him without really preparing either of them. Their voices are earsplitting as they scream, but after they've awkwardly stumbled through the first few thrusts they settle with a pace that is not as much rhythm as it is forceful jerks and panting moans.

And the pain is beautiful. It's beautiful like him.

With every movement of the thick organ he can feel his insides tearing and as blood continues to pour out of every wound he has he feels dizzy, but somehow he still manages to gather enough strength to clamp down on the moving flesh; and when the body above him shudders and groans he bends the scissors from a tightly clenched fist and stabs an unexpecting shoulder, digging the cold metal as far into the muscle tissue as he can. When he tugs the weapon back out red liquid gushes down the naked chest and it covers his thighs and his stomach, making their movements even more fluent, and it doesn't take long before their bodies give up and give in.

This is just one way of many to release the tension that increases between them with every breath they take. At least that's what they tell themselves when they lie down on the blood stained carpet side by side, with their chests heaving and their hearts beating so fast they can feel the drumming sounds vibrating in their ears. There was sound and now there is silence, because words seem so out of place.

In the end, it's him who speaks first, having decided that his lungs have had enough time to recover.

'Do you love me?'

The mouth beside him opens and speaks, a hoarse voice without much power behind it that still sounds slightly breathless.

'Yes. You love me, too.'

It's a statement, not a question, but he still feels a vocal confirmation is in place.

'Yes.'

And at this moment in time, his words are as honest as they will ever get. His soul is yearning for the human being that lies spent and broken next to him, tracing swirly patterns on his own skin with his own blood, so indifferent to the surrounding world. He wants nothing more than to curl up to his side and hug him until they both forget all about who they are and who they are ought to be. And so, for the second time that night, he follows his urge and he hugs the warm body with both of his arms, lapping at its wounds and humming happily. A hand descends on his head and begins to thread through his hair, silently indicating that this is alright.


End file.
